


The End Is Over

by anr



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-22
Updated: 2005-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all over, the end is over, so let's do it again and again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End Is Over

**Author's Note:**

> Post- _These Are The Voyages_ (4x22)  
>  "The End Is Over" (Powerman 5000)
> 
> Request: Trip/T'Pol future fic.

Three months after he dies (but doesn't), Trip goes to Vulcan.

He probably should have called first.

  


* * *

  


"So, let me get this straight." It's been five days since he woke in a San Francisco hospital, with unfamiliar plasma scars burnt into his chest and cheek, and the events leading up to that awakening still don't make much sense. (Most likely, he thinks, they never will.) "I died."

"Yes."

"Died as in _dead_."

"Yes." Across from him, Jon uncorks a bottle of Andorian ale and tilts it in his direction. "Drink?"

Nodding, Trip presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. " _Please._ "

  


* * *

  


Sand and sun and _damn_ if it isn't as hot as hell here. Leaving the terminal, Trip reshoulders his pack and sighs.

He really does hate desert worlds.

  


* * *

  


Dead. Not dead. Brain dead. Not brain dead. Comatose. Not comatose.

The descriptions tumble endlessly in his mind, each making about as much sense as the anti-matter intermix ratios needed for warp ten. (Not that he thinks anyone will ever be able to go that fast anyway, but an engineer can dream, can't he?)

"You look confused."

"I _feel_ confused." Carefully tipping his glass, he watches the electric-blue alcohol cling and slip on the sides of the tumbler.

"If it's any consolation, Phlox didn't know what to make of it either. Every time he figured he had a diagnosis worked out--"

"Dead."

"--you'd turn around and surprise him."

"Not dead."

"Right."

  


* * *

  


He knows where she's staying-- _thank you, Jon_ \--but finding her there would make this all too easy and they are, by definition, never that. Undeterred, he wracks his memory (six years _is_ a long time between visits) and perseveres.

  


* * *

  


"I must have reported your death to Starfleet at least three times in the journey home alone. At one point, T'Pol even packed up your quarters for your parents."

_Damn_. Shaking his head when Jon moves to top up his glass, he looks out Jon's office window. Not a bad view, he thinks, for Earth's newest Admiral. "Shouldn't have let her do that," he says quietly.

Jon shrugs. "She insisted. Plus, at the time, we were pretty sure you'd finally died for good."

_Finally died for good._ God, could his life _be_ any weirder?

  


* * *

  


He heads to Mount Seleya next ( _to meditate... alone_ ), getting lost only once or twice, but, while the view is nice, there's nothing there that he wants.

  


* * *

  


"And this kept happenin' for, what, a couple of weeks?"

"Probably closer to four. Once the doctors had repaired your lungs, you stopped constantly dying--"

"And not dying."

"--but by then everybody had pretty much decided that you were never going to fully recover. I believe 'persistent vegetative state' was the phrase they kept tossing around. It was decided that it would only be a matter of time before you stopped delaying the inevitable and simply stayed dead."

Trip snorts. "You make it sound like I was deliberately tryin' to inconvenience you all."

"Well, it _did_ create a lot of paperwork..."

Typically, his indignant, "hey!" makes them both laugh.

  


* * *

  


The lava fields are exactly like he remembers them: hot, unforgiving, and still one of the most incredible things he's ever seen.

That she's standing there, almost exactly where he left her six years ago, just makes the view all the more affecting.

  


* * *

  


"Now, tell me." Laughter finally fading, Jon drains the last of his ale. "What can I do for you?"

Mock-wounded, Trip raises an eyebrow. "What, a guy can't visit his best friend for a little 'back from the dead again' celebratin'?"

"Sure." Jon's nod is easy-going. "But since we've already celebrated your return to life twice so far this week, I'm thinking there's another reason for this social call."

_Busted._ With an embarrassed little half-grin, he looks out the window again just in time to see a shuttle take off in the distance. "Well, now that you mention it..."

  


* * *

  


"You're alive."

"So they tell me." Leaning against one of the rocky outcroppings to catch his breath (damn Vulcan atmosphere), Trip watches her watch the view. "You don't seem too surprised." He's not even going to ask how she knew it was him behind her, and not some random Vulcan.

One shoulder lifts and falls smoothly in a close approximation of a shrug. "This is not the first time you have died, nor, logically, will it be the last."

Oh, yeah. His life _definitely_ could not be any weirder. "I'll try to remember that the next time."

"Or you could simply be more careful." Her rebuke is sharp, with just the faintest trace of concern hiding along its edge. He swallows a grin.

"Yes'm." Finally moving, he takes the half-dozen steps needed to stand at her side and, after a moment, says lightly, "I missed you when I woke up." He'd seen everyone except her within a day or so of his recovery and even the news that she'd left his side only hours before that awakening couldn't change the hollow sensation he'd felt at her absence.

"You missed me," she repeats, glancing at him.

Haven't they already had this conversation? "Yes."

She turns back to the fields. "I had matters to take care of here before I report to the _Prometheus_ for my next assignment." It is hardly a reciprocation, but her arm brushes his lightly so he doesn't mind.

"Before _we_ report," he corrects, smiling when she looks up at him sharply. "Hey, I told you there were ways."

"Indeed." Her gaze is steady, her voice not so much. Emboldened, he carefully shifts until he can stroke his index and middle fingers against hers. She stiffens briefly at the contact but, before he can pull away, grips his hand tightly. Tentatively, she says, "I am... relieved... that you are well again." Her fingers tangle neatly with his. "I did not wish to miss you."

Smiling still, he squeezes her hand. "Ditto." 

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/204341.html>


End file.
